The Fourth Wall
by signedheart
Summary: You don't even want to know the original title for this.


_I should write. _

Rose looked over at her desk where her parchment and quill lay untouched. She hadn't had any motivation for the last week. She knew eventually she would start caring again and then kick herself for allowing her past self to be so lazy.

_People are expecting me to write something._

She almost got up from where she was curled up in her chair, a cup of tea balancing nervously on the arm. She didn't succeed, instead she crashed back down into the chair to curl her arms around her knees.

_No they're not. No one really reads what I write anyway._

She picked up her tea and took a sip, scalding her mouth. She no longer flinched at the pain of the hot liquid. She had done this since childhood, always burning her mouth due to her impatience. She had long since developed a bit of an immunity to the burns. Still, her quick intake of breath was loud in the silence that enveloped her. It was quiet, the wee hours of a new day, just hitting 3am.

_Maybe I should just go to sleep._

This was her favorite time to write. It was silent in her normally loud flat. Her roommate, Joyce, was hyperactive and always crashing into things, dropping things, making all kinds of noises that Rose simply couldn't stand. She loved Joyce, just not her noises. They made it impossible for her to write. The only sounds at this time were made by the fireplace, her pesky cat, or the occasional car that would speed by, never slowing in this sleepy little town. Not when they were so close to a city that had all sorts of amazement and wonder.

_I should write. Maybe just a chapter._

The sound of a quill, freshly dipped in dark ink, scratching along the surface of parchment would add to the noise. But this was a noise she loved, yearned for. She felt best when she was writing, when she was creating and living in a world all of her own design.

_Why? No one actually likes what I write. What's the point?_

She turned her head away from the temptations that were on her desk.

_Anytime I show someone my work all they do is criticize._

Rose could handle constructive criticism. She liked it, she wanted her work to be the best it could be. It was when people started to attack it when they just didn't_ get_ it. She'd show someone a chapter and they would tell her it didn't make sense. Well of course not, it was only a chapter in a story, not the entire completion.

_I can't please anyone._

They'd tell her that her characters didn't make sense, or that they weren't acting in a way they thought they should. They'd tell her pointless little things about what they liked in other books. They'd take an implication wrong, or feel uncomfortable about the written word.

_At least you're enjoying this._

Her orange cat meowed at her happily, always loving the attention. He hated it when she would neglect him in favor of her writing. Again she looked at her desk, this time pulling herself from her chair and moving to her workspace.

_Inspiration will come. I'll create something. There's going to be some bad along the way, but there will be a lot of good too. _

Rose touched the nib of the quill to the parchment. She was soothed as the melody of scratches followed along with her thoughts.

_A muggle sits alone in the small bedroom of her American apartment. She looks over to her desk to see her laptop screen, dark from her abandonment. She knows she should write, she has readers that follow her stories. There are some fantastic people she has met through writing, as well as a few of the unfortunate grey anonymous faces that are quick with their words of judgement. The newest site she has been using has proven to have the most difficult crowd. _

_Another glance at the computer has her on her feet. The rut she has been in lately would soon end. A small orange cat jumps onto the desk she sits at, he always hates when she writes. He is too jealous for her attention for his own good, she smiles as she picks him up and sets him on her lap. Another sip of too-hot tea and she hits a button on the keyboard. Lighting up and welcoming her back the laptop whirrs softly to life. _

_A new document is opened and she looks at the blank white slate she has to fill with all of her ideas. She is sure that not everything she writes will be a success, that it is a learning experience. One day something will take off, her dreams of being an author will come true. This is just __practice for when that day comes, a way to pass the time. _

_The idea of her next piece unravels in her mind. It's nothing fancy, no great work of art, but it is something that may put her back into the writing mood again. Just a little thing, a piece that will surly earn some disapproval. She looks up at her surroundings, the four walls of her room painting a perfect set for the story._

_One - where a comfortable old chair is residing._

_Two - where a writer will sit at her desk, scribbling out her latest work._

_Three - where an orange cat has stormed over to his bed, unhappily staring at his owner._

_Four - _

. 

* * *

-Author's Note-  
The fourth wall is what separates reality from the story.


End file.
